


Home is Where the Heart Is

by anoyo



Series: Home Series [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-06
Updated: 2007-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoyo/pseuds/anoyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit of domesticity after a long trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is Where the Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the "Home" series. This series does not have a chronological order, but rather is a collection of stories with the similar theme of domesticity and "home."
> 
> This particular piece is dedicated to [Aku](http://emoji.livejournal.com), as it was posted just before her birthday.

"I'm home!" The trip had been longer this time. Two stops along the way for the improper use of AI technology -- hand in hand with somewhat frightening memories of mobile dolls -- and a last minute recon stop to see if a group they'd sanctioned earlier that year had been following code. They hadn't, of course, and the recon team wound up dodging both verbal and physical bullets. In the end, he'd been away from home for nearly a month.

He never used to rely on "home" for a base, a place to attach himself to and to return to whenever possible. If "home is where the heart is," then where is the wanderer's home? And when the wanderer finds a true home, is he truly the wanderer? What has he lost?

Deep questions, but irrelevant. "Home" is where the one he loves resides. The one that is the real reason he makes his way to one location time after time, ignoring the soldier's spirit telling him to move on.

It's a mellow existence, that of "home." It's not a safehouse -- certainly not, for it's listed in the white pages -- where he can kick up his boots for a couple days, then hustle out with the arrival of enemy forces. It's calm, quiet, and serene, on an emotional level if not a physical one. Truth be told, it's messy with last week's pants on the floor, noisy with some contemporary alternative band in the stereo, and crowded, with another being always in his personal space.

But that's what makes it home.

As he hangs his coat on the near-empty rack -- his flatmate's is crumpled on the ground below, with a twin most likely strewn across the sofa -- and toes his shoes into the entry closet -- where he has to push aside the shoes already haphazardly thrown in for clean space -- he hears the kitchen door open, some pasta smell wafting out, and stocking-clad feet make their way down the hall towards him.

It's a small apartment, with one bedroom, one bath, a cozy living room, cozier kitchen, and two closets for odds-and-ends, but neither of them has ever had a lot of "stuff," and they both find the concept of high-numbering possessions pointless.

He sets his briefcase against the wall, to remain there until he leaves again -- work isn't allowed to come home in anything more than the physical sense, not after That Incident -- and loosens his tie, followed by his cufflinks.

The other comes into view, grinning, as per usual, and with a somewhat damp-looking towel across one shoulder. "Hey, gorgeous," he says, throwing an arm around a waist and winning himself a kiss. The traveler leans into this, ignoring the dampness he begins to feel through the shoulder of his moderately-priced suit. "I missed you," the other says, when he looses his grip enough to lean back.

"Hm," the traveler replies, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the other's, who in turn runs a hand up and down his back. It's comfortable, and if he wasn't exhausted from jet-lag, he'd stay there longer, "What's for dinner?" he asks lightly, leaning back to spot a grin.

"Spaghetti," the other answers, smiling. "No tomatoes, no onions, no mushrooms. Just some appropriately-spiced sauce and some fine diced meat."

This is met with a grin and stifled with a yawn. "Good. I'm going to go change."

One last kiss, and they both return to their post-return routine. The traveler continues to their bedroom, unbuttoning and pulling off as he goes, taking only the required energy to throw the suit over the back of a chair so it doesn't wrinkle. He changes into a pair of worn jeans -- they might not be his, but he's not paying attention -- and a loose T-shirt before padding barefoot back out to the kitchen and dropping himself into a chair just as a bowl of noodles joins the one of sauce already on the table.

He piled some onto his plate, mixing the noodles and sauce just so, and leaning half against the back of his chair, and half against the wall. His posture and enthusiastic eating elicited a laugh at his expense,

"How'd the job go? No one got shot?"

He looked up at these words and raised an eyebrow. Swallowing, "No, no one got shot. We wound up getting last-minute instructions to recheck the MacCarthy's for progress, and of course there wasn't any. They took exception to our taking exception, Brad MacCarthy yelled at us, and Benji fired a few shots into the melee. Jackson, the new guy on our team, got the scare of his life when the first shot when off, but he handled it as well as could be expected." He took a swallow of water. "Have fun grading papers?"

"Oh, yeah, loads. I think the administration is realizing that their 'Midterms = Papers' idea isn't so hot, so maybe it'll go into the running for a change this next term. I liked that Anderson kid's paper, though. Remember? The one whose dad yelled at us for having been part of the reason the war perpetuated? Apparently the kid doesn't agree with his dad any more than we do."

Finishing off dinner, and conversation, was a comfortable ordeal. Rinsing dishes and proceeding to collapse on the sofa with some light music playing was as good a reward as anything, and after so many hours on a shuttle, he found himself drifting off even more quickly than he usually would. Of course, this as well earned him a small laugh.

"Tired, eh?" he felt through his back, and heard only barely, as a strand of hair worked its way out of his eyes.

A long yawn was the only response he managed, as well as the knowledge that he should move himself out to the bedroom, having had bad end results from sleeping on the sofa before. But it was hard to care all that much, warm and supported, and he drifted off to a kiss placed on his temple.

"Good night. See you when you wake up."


End file.
